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“Addiction” by Anne Highley-Smith

Help me fly from
my fingertips into
yours,
let the light gush out
in waves of washed
out color,
greens and yellows
rusty colored teeth of mad men
tasting the clouds with their tears,
stale cotton candy says
one vagabond
to a clown,
whiskey and pennies says
the clown to the
cool earth crusted between his ventricles

the tempo is off

the tempo is off

the tempo is off

chalky milk dribbles from
the breasts of cracked out mothers
smothering their husbands
under blankets of addiction
gripped tight by the fingers
made from metal wrought by
human hands
fingering the keys with
bloody and browning tips
toying with the screech of the strings
filling ears with paste
as the hooded figures
watch and masturbate
stroke
stroke
stroke
themselves while they drool
over their chins and
chests and chide you
hide you
and I
as we
sit and rock
sticking needles into our
eye and toe
sockets
in front of
burning dumpsters
erasing our past and
memories of one another.

Let us become strangers to our
blind eyes now
blessed by twisted lilac
lullabies lulling and droning
on and
on and on
wrapping words
around our shoulders
lying my head upon the
pillow made from our pus filled
wounds.